


And light a candle that has gone out

by neverending_shenanigans



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon What Canon, F/F, F/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Self-Insert, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_shenanigans/pseuds/neverending_shenanigans
Summary: In which four bastards alter the story of the seven kingdoms quite a lot. Four small candles setting fire to the tapestry that fate had waeved. Four lights that had been extinguished in another realm, burning brighter in this world.





	1. From Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mauisse_Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mauisse_Flowers/gifts), [uruvielnumenesse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uruvielnumenesse/gifts), [Wiggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiggins/gifts).



> Abandon all hope for canon, ye who enter here.
> 
> (No, seriously. This is me trying to remember what i read more than five years ago in the books, but the focus is very much on the four bastard babes.)

„I cannot believe the little witch snuck her way in again,“ Lysara hears one of them mutter before she sees them. She doesn’t turn to look at the servants at the door, and instead trains her eyes on Sansa, who is currently telling a new fairytale she dreamed up. Or trying, to, constantly interrupted by Arya. And as usually, Sansa was mistaking Arya’s interruption for a slight, whereas Arya’s pointed question about the Knights in the story were overly enthusiastic interested.

Lysara smiles, or pretends to, but her focus is on the servants. She tries to make out who they are based on their voice – taking note of it, for later. Know thy enemies, a voice in her mind mutters darkly.

“If Lady Catelyn knew she would be furious,” another voice speaks up, with audible disdain. More silent than the other ones, but clearly neither is aware that their voices carry. Lysara had noted this years ago. If she sat with her chair in this specific corner of the room, she could hear much more clearly what people in the hallways were saying. Her chair was always in this very spot, eversince.

 “Lord Eddard is too lax with the little these bastards. That lad is being trained right alongside his trueborn heir. And this Karstark ward is schooled alongside Lady Sansa and Small Lady Arya,” the disdainful one prattles on. The more she says, the more clearly Lysara can place the voice. It is one of Lady Catelyn’s personal handmaidens. One that had served House Tully for many years. The old hag. She never spoke to Lysara directly, which made her opinion very clear on its own merit.

“Look at her,” the other one whispers, sounding almost in awe, “with those black locks and those blue eyes. Pale a sheet. Such a shame. Half of the folk around here think her the sibling of the other bastard. She looks more _Stark_ than _Kar_ stark. And I cannot blame them. I never knew Lord Eddard’s sister meself, but belief me, I am a Northerner. We know these things. I could belief her to be the spitting image of the witch.”

“The other way round, you ninny,” the old hag mumbled. “And don’t spread such nonsense. Lord Eddard would not have dared to have cuckooed our poor lady in placing another one of his bastards under her roof. The one he brought is insult enough.”

It is in that moment that Lysara is distracted, when Arya suddenly bounces up from her chair and throws her needle work on the floor, with an angry huff. “I refuse,” she stomps her little feet. “I refuse to do it again.” For a girl of nine, her voice really sounds forceful.

Apparently Septa Mordane had pointed out flaws in her work – again. And Arya was being tempestuous – again. Lysara lowers her own needle work as the young girl threw herself in her lap, practically climbing her like a monkey (and quite unladylike, as eleven years old Sansa hissed). “Lys, let us go outside, please. Let’s find Jon and Robb and Porther and Quent and shoot things. Father will not mind if you go with me.”

“Lady Arya,” the Septa frowned at the girl’s words with disapproval, “do not abuse your father’s kindness to his ward. You are much too young for the… added lessons your… distant cousin is receiving.” It amused Lysara endlessly to see the poor old Septa stumble over her words, carefully trying to balance her own disapproval of the fact that Lysara had been taught how to shoot a bow with her need to not contradict Lord Stark’s wishes.

Not that she had not, on occasion, voiced her concern that Lord Stark was spoiling the Karstark bastard girl he was raising, on account of her being his own cousin’s bastard. But the Septa was much more subtle and loyal than the two servants still prattling on in the hallway. She often praised Lord Eddard's foresight in taking in a bastard that the Karstark's could not and would not have raised, thereby tying the family more closely together.

“We’re more than cousins,” Arya huffed, in the way only children could – gleeful and exasperated at the same time. “We’re soulmates!” And as if anyone needed proving of that again, she grabbed Lysara’s sleeve with one hand, pushing up, and put her much smaller writ next to it. And indeed, matching marks were displayed ice-white and gold colours intertwined on a sigil mark. “We’re blessed by the old gods! Our Souls are linked by the heart trees!” Arya croned.

“No,” the Septa’s voice was much sharper now than before. “That is old nonsense. Souls are not like Trees with connected roots. What you bear is a Mark of Light, a gift from the Seven. It is merely a light of guidance. And you should not abuse that either, little Lady.”

Lysara pointedly did not meet the Septa’s eyes. Both of them knew that it was her who kept teaching Arya about the old ways of the North.  Though sometimes ... sometimes she wished she could teach Arya other things, too. Much older things - _different things_.  Things that came to her in dreams. Herbs that did not grow here, myths that were unknown. But they often escaped her as soon as she woke. So instead, she made sure that Arya knew of the real North, the wild North, at the very least. And she would not stop. Not even if the servants continued calling her a witch.

Speaking of – they were talking to a third voice now, who had just joined them. “No, I do not know,” Tomard, one of the guardsmen. Lysara liked him, even though he was a big gossip. He was … kind. “Now if you please, …”

And then there was a bit of shuffling, and a moment later Tomard entered. Followed by Maester Luwin. “Pardon me, Septa. But your lesson will have to be cut short today. Lord Eddard wishes for all his children –“ he paused, briefly, eyes lingering on Lysara “- and the Ward to be brought before him this instant.”

Septa Mordane raises one eyebrow at him. “Is that so.” She starts to rise, likely to escort them. But before she even stands, Arya has practically jumped off of Lysara and is racing out the door. Sansa stares after her, a twitch in her legs, and then meets Lysaras gaze. Lysara cannot hold back a grin. “What do you say, cousin? Shall we race her?”

It’s clear that Sansa is tempted. But then, with a glance at the Septa, she seems to reign herself in. “Ladies do not run.”

Lysara has no real desire to run across the castle but… by the old gods, if she doesn’t hate the way Sansa is fighting this urge. “Sounds like Ladies have no fun.” And with that, she jumps up and races after Arya herself. She is not surprised that Sansa follows her, trying not to run but also quite too fast to pass as a lady-like walk.

Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin and Tomard are left to stare after the girls, with wildly different expressions. It is clear that Tomard can barely fight down a chuckle, Maester Luwin seems oddly sentimental and the Septa less then pleased. With a bow, Tomard excuses himself and the two elderly are left to themselves.

Finally it is her who breaks the moment. “Do you know what is so urgent that Lord Eddard calls for _all_ of them?” If it were a smaller matter, he might not have asked for Lysara. It was clear that he doted on the young girl of sixteen, but Lord Eddard knew of his Ladies distaste for the girl. And he tried not to draw her ire.

Luwin looks towards the door, but when he sees no servants lingering there any longer, he turns to the old Septa with a sombre expression. “A messenger from King’s Landing arrived. The King is riding North.”

For a moment, the old woman goes very still. Then realization strikes her, and she looks positively worried. Her worry increases when her eyes meet Maester Luwin’s. “Do you think … he is coming for …”

The old Maestor crosses his hands behind his back. “He may, he may not. The Sparrow implied he knows not of her, but so many years have passed. And as she ages, it becomes hard to deny. The Northerners do not see it yet, but ... he is bringing his Queen.”

Septa Mordane looks as if someone had slapped her, taking a step back. “He is?” She makes a small sign. “Mother guide us and watch over that girl. She may be in danger if that is true.”

Maestor Luwin nods, briefly. “Indeed. Let us join them and hear what Lord Eddard thinks of it.”

They both leave the room in more haste than might have been appropriate or expected of them.


	2. From Tempest

“You are a true daughter of the sea, aren’t you, Trista? I knew I would find you here.”

“I am no one’s true daughter. Or my last name would not be Storm,” the young girl of a fresh sixteen winters replied dryly. Steel-grey eyes transfixed on the azure waters of the Shipbreaker bay beneath her, feet dangling over the cliff. Only when the other person sat down beside her did she briefly tear her gaze away from the waves crashing against the rocks below.

Cameron looks positively drained, much older than the twenty winters he is counting, with bags beneath his blue eyes and his blonde hair in disarray not caused by the winds howling about them. He had always had a frail constitution, but this is different. He, too, is staring out across the sea now, but his hand reaches for hers, tips of his fingers intertwining with hers.

On any other day, she would have pulled back. Cameron is the Evenstar’s nephew. Natural born, like her, but held dearly by Lord Tarth and his heir, Lady Brienne. They had been good to her, and she would not encourage displaced affection in their relative. But it seems needlessly cruel to not let him have as much as the tips of her fingers today.

“Why now?” He asks, confused more than angry.

Trista shrugs, tearing her gaze from his stormy expression. “She told Lord Tarth she would come for me one day. One day has come now.”

His fingers twitch. “And her husband would have her bring her bastard into their new home? He must be a kind man.”

It is strange. There is no denying this. She was the bastard of a courtesan, an expensive whore, raised graciously as a fosterling in Tarth from her second winter. Her parentage was unclear, but Lady Brienne assumed that it was someone of the Baratheon line, or else the Evenstar would not have agreed to it in the first place. Tarth was loyal to Stormsend above all. Her black hair, a square jaw and soft lips seemed to confirm these suspicions. Once, during a festive, the Evenstar had commented that she strangely resembled “his mother” a lot. So in all likelihood, the Evenstar knew of her parentage, even if he never once commented on it again.

And that was fine by Trista. She felt no attachment to either the mysterious father or the mother who gave her away, not reaching out once. The grounds of Tarth were her father, teaching her hard work and sturdy loyalty, and the sea her mother, testing her tempers. And Lady Brienne the sister she likely didn’t deserve.

And now her mother – a former whore – had married a minor Lord of some noble house, residing in King’s Landing. Her last desire should be to have brought her bastard daughter before her within weeks of the marriage. What good could that bring? Should she not celebrate that she had managed a marriage so much above her station? Should she not hope that her new husband would never remember the life she had led? Fool. Her mother had to be a complete and utter fool.

“You know, the sea is not as blue in King’s Landing, but I think you will find they have much more ships there.” Maybe Cameron has misread her expression, for he suddenly is switching topics.

She glances at him, and half-smiles. “True.”

Then his fingers suddenly dig deeper, not as much as to cause pain, and he turns her palm, upwards. With the other hand he traces the only of her giftmarks that is complete yet. Azure and Steel glowing softly.

“You will return here, yes? For Lady Brienne?”

Trista stares down at the Sigil, and then slowly pulls her palm out of his grasp. She wonders if her mother knows that she is taking her daughter away from one of the gifts the seven bestowed on her. Likely, no. It was not a topic that was talked about. Especially not of the sole heir of Tarth had a base bastard for gift.

When the Evenstar had read the letter to them, and informed her that he would send her to her mother with a guard in three days time, Lady Brienne’s face had been stone. Lord Tarth had always encouraged their bond, calling her once the gift the gods gave his daughter so she would not have to grow up alone, after they had taken her siblings. Lord Tarth was a kind man, but not even he could deny a mother the wish to have her child returned. Or he could – but he wouldn’t.

“And how would you have me do that?”

For a moment, Cameron falls silent. Then, tentatively, he grasps her hand again. When she looks at him, a lopsided smile is on his tired face. “Steal a ship?” Trista snorts. Encouraged by this, he continues, squeezing her hand softly. “Brienne and I would meet you in the bay at night, and we could become pirates. Or sale to Essos. Find a place where no one cares about being bastards, or women wielding swords.”

“I doubt you would find such a place anywhere. Not even on Essos,” Trista replies, dryly. But she, too, squeezes his hand, after a moment of hesitation.

“We would enjoy looking for it,” Cameron retorts, with a laugh. Then he sighs. And this time it is him letting go of her hand.  He coughs violently, for a moment, then he gets up.

“I had better return inside. Lady Brienne hacked away on some wooden figures earlier and I bet all the swords need sharpening again,” he extends a hand towards her. “Want to join me?”

Trista hesitates, briefly. Then she shakes her head. “I want to remain here a bit longer.” She would miss this place. Tarth was known for its beauty. King’s Landing would not be able to compare to this.

“As you wish,” Cameron says, and returns inside.

Trista remains on the edge of the cliff for at least another hour, pondering possible reasons for why her mother would want her now. In truth, she had asked herself all the questions that Cameron had asked, too. Had wondered if she could ever return here. But the answer was simple: she was no one.

She was not Lady Brienne, with her iron backbone, turning down suitors and learning to fight despite what people said of her. She was also not Cameron with his hopeless optimism, trusting that the Seven would guide them on the best path possible. She could only float with the current and hope that it would once more bring her to a place that she could call home. All she could do was hope that she would not drown in the brewing storm.


	3. From Dust

“Have you gathered your things, my love?”

Deria looks up from her book, at the woman who enters the room unbidden. Sand-coloured silks draped over a lithe body and hair dyed the colour of dried blood. A brooch shimmers on her chest, a gift from the Prince; a golden snake with amethysts for eyes to rival the lilac colour of her own irises. Right now, these eyes linger on Deria, her silk dress, and narrow a fraction. The sweetness drains from her voice. “I see you did not change. What is the matter with the dress? You are aware that it was a parting gift by the prince himself, yes?”

Deria meets her mother’s hardening gaze with a raised chin, fire in her own violet eyes. “It doesn’t fit.”

Daena observes her daughter cooly, for a moment. Then she sinks down on a pile of cushions, with a sigh. She knows her daughter too well not to know that this would take longer than anticipated. “I doubt that. It was handmaid to fit you. More than you deserve with your petulance.”

“No,” Deria repeats, firmly, pretending to focus on the books in her lap again. “It doesn’t fit _me_ ,” stressing the last word clearly.

Does she hope her mother will simply accept it? Yes. But she doesn’t believe it. Deria may not yet count seventeen summers, but she is no child anymore. She is not stupid. She knows that this won’t go away easily.

“Oh?” Daena intones, feigning interest. “Why, I thought it quite lovely. The colour matches your eyes, and the ebony pearls and embroidery match your hair. Prince Oberyn would be hurt by your words, Love.”

Fine. She will play along, if her mother insists. Deria finally puts the book down, grabbing the dress draped on the bed next to her by the collar. The lilac fabric rustles as she raises it up, as if to show it off. She stares at it with a sneer. “Sleeves that tie down my arms with weight. Skirts that tie down my legs with layers. Collars that constrict my lungs from breathing. Is it a dress to die in? I would sooner die than wear it.” And with the last words, she lets it fall to the floor. “If you want me to wear it, send me in a coffin to King’s Landing, mother.” Her eyes drop to her book once more.

And following the dress, silence falls over both women for the moment. And it remains there, until it becomes uncomfortable for Deria. Finally, she glances at her mother, out of the corner of her eyes. She expects anger or annoyance. She does not expect her mother to have a palm pressed against her lips, and tears dancing in the corner of her eyes.

She hastily drops the book, pushing herself off the bed, and falls down at her mother’s feet. She reaches for her hands, with both of her own. Now is the moment to strike. “Mother, please. Do not send me to courtesans are reviled and bastards beaten. Do not send me where people will scorn me for my eyes and name. Why do you want me there? Dorne is my home. My happiness is here.”

For a moment, Deria thinks she sees her mother’s resolve crumble. When her mother reaches up with her free hand, and puts the palm against her cheek she feels triumphant. But the moment shatters when her mother speaks.

“And Dorne will wait for your return. When you have learned. When you have seen the world and can judge it with your own eyes.”

Deria scowls. “What could I ever learn there that I could not learn here? No, I shan’t. You cannot force me,” and moves to draw back from the fork-tongued woman who claims to be her mother, but now Daena reaches out quickly with her second hand, holding unto her shoulders now. Now _she_ sees her chance to strike.

“There is so _much_ to learn. King’s Landing is more than my past. Is Tyene not your gift by the seven? Do you not constantly tell me how much you admire her mind? Your own mind has so much growing yet to do. If you do not know that, it only goes to show how direly you need it, my foolish little scorpion,” and then she moves for the strike. She leans in, and kisses her daughter between her angrily furrowed brows. “Do not be afraid of the world.”

She wants to spit venom, wants to hurl words of insult at her mother, but with one gesture her mother tore down her walls of righteous anger at the injustice done to her in being sent to a foreign place, and leaves bare her fears.

“Why?” She hates the pleading tone in her unsure voice.

But the word has effect. Her mother’s lets go of her, and a tempest of emotion crosses her face. Finally, she sighs. “I cannot tell you all. It would not be safe. But know this, and never speak of it to anyone, not even Tyene: there is an old debt that is owed to us in King’s Landing. You know no family aside from me for it, and the time has come to correct it.”

“Family,” Deria echoes, with hesitation. What family? She is Deria Sand, the natural daughter of Daena of the Fire. She did not even know her mother’s true name, let alone family. She had all the family she could ever wish for here. Her hand flew to the glowing sigil, red and purple swirling in the crook of her elbow. Tyene and the other Sand Snakes were the only blessing she could ever have wanted or needed. The Red Viper, a Prince of Dorne, was like an Uncle to her. It should be more than anyone could ever hope for. And yet… _and yet_ … she felt her heart beat quicken at the mere thought, the sigil heating up under her touch.

Her mother raises one hand, to brush back unruly black locks out of her daughters face. She is smiling now, and there is something wistful in it. “Yes. I cannot give them to you, much as I would wish it. But at the very least, you shall know your father.”

Father. Deria could but stare at her mother’s face. She is at loss for words.

“And I, myself, owe someone an old debt. It is he I send you to. It is time to repay him for helping me escape here, before you were born.”

No. No. Deria shakes her head. For a moment, she had allowed herself to be distracted – and mother knew it – but this was not something she could accept. “A debt you pay with your only child?” She draws forcefully out from her mathers grasp, and is on her feet in an instant.

Tyene’s words echo in her mind, burning bitterly. When the news had reached them, she had pleaded for  them to go together, but the girl who should be of one heart with her had refused with cryptic words. _So long as Lions with blood on their paws prowl King’s Landing, no Snake will ever be safe there._ So how could she ever consider going there?

 “I have no need of family or father. I will not go,” she crosses her arms, trying to stare her mother down, willing her to accept that this. She could not, would not go.

But where her mother softened under her earlier outburst she now hardened beneath it. She rises from the cushions and shakes her head, briefly.

“Dorne has been a good place to both of us, but I see now that it has spoiled you, Deria. You will find that King’s Landing is much less forgiving with foolish girls that do not know their place or when to hold their tongues and obey. So it is time for you to learn this. The guard will fetch you within the hour, and I will tell him to take you as you are. If you are not changed and have not gathered your things, you will regret it. You will not be given another chance.”

She walks over to the door, pausing only briefly in the doorway. “Tyene will be here to say her goodbye. It is your own decision what the last image shall be for her to have of you for the years to come, little scorpion.”

Deria can only stare at her mother as she leaves, and it is only when the door falls shut that it finally settles within her own mind.  She sinks to the floor and starts crying.


	4. From Weeds

“Little Cat, have you delivered the message to my useless son yet?”

Joanna looks up from the needle work in her lap, her dark green eyes met by yellow old ones. The gaze is piercing but not unkind.

“Yes, Lady Olenna. I delivered it hours ago, as soon as you handed it to me,” she obediently answers, careful to keep her head still.

The Queen of Thorns, the mother of the King of Highgarden, does not seem pleased. For a brief moment, Joanna wonders if she did wrong in this, but the Lady’s words had been very clear. A hastily scrawled letter to be delivered into the Hands of Mace Tyrell as soon as he returned from the hunt.

“Odd,” the old Lady muses. “I would have assumed he’d immediately come by to whine about it and ruin my day.” She turns to the girl sitting on the blanket next to Joanna. “Men don’t like it when you refuse them their whimsy. Remember to raise your sons to accept your will over theirs, child.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Margery intones dutifully, mirth audible in her voice. Joanna returns her gaze to the needle work. For several moments, the garden is mostly quiet, aside from the bustling of the servants and the humming of insects about them, until a loud voice calls out to them.

“ _Mother_ , is it true that you are not well?”

Joanna looks up when Lady Alerie enters the gardens. Her tall, dignified posture is tense as she strides over to the shaded corner of garden where Lady Olenna, Margery, Garlan, her, and three other of Margery’s cousins are currently seated. For the better part of the day, Lady Olenna had watched Margery and Garlan play chess, before she had decided she needed to show them how it was done. Now she was busy beating Garlan and did not seem to react at all.

Joanna herself had been busily brushing Margery’s soft curling brown hair, as Margery liked to claim that out of all her cousins Joanna had the softest fingers. And they had only traded roles when Margery had grown bored and decided that she wanted to braid Joanna’s black curls into the newest fashion, a favourite pastime of hers. At the moment, she is busing herself decorating the braids with flowers, so Joanna is careful to sit still. It was a pun on her last name - Joanna Flowers - that Margery always felt very clever about.

Joanna couldn’t keep from turning her head just a bit, though, to admire Margery’s mother. Joanna had always admired Lady Alerie. Not just for her beauty – and beautiful she was, with her long silver hair braided to fall down on her back – but especially for her poise and patience. One that was always brought to light in her interactions with her mother in law – the Queen of Thorns.

Joanna bit back a smile, exchanging secretive a glance with Cousin Margery. It was well known that Lady Olenna held no love for her daughter in law most of the time. She held no love for Alerie’s whole house – House Hightwoer – in general. She considered them “soft fools”. For this reason, both tended to avoid each other. Whenever they interacted, however, it was bound to be … interesting.

“Hush, Alerie. I am neither deaf nor am I your mother, if I must remind you again,” Lady Olenna spoke, without ever tearing her yellow eyes off the board in front of her. “And do be quiet until it is your turn. Your voice dispels any smart thought from the area around you.”

Lady Alerie raises her chin slightly, but remains standing, waiting. It is only after several minutes that old widow finally leans forward to move a figure with her gaunt fingers. Then, with a sigh that makes her annoyances clear enough – as if her sharp words hadn’t done so abundantly – she looks up at Lady Alerie. “So?”

Again, Joanna cannot help but admire Lady Alerie. There is no sharpness to her words, in stark contrast to her mother in law. She knew that Cousin Margery admired her Grandmother, and that the Queen of Thorns took pride in making sure that her grandchildren should not inherit any of her “sons and their mothers dim wit”. And yet… she would find it more favourable to be compared to Lady Alerie. Lady Olenna was feared by all of Highgarden, but they called Lady Alerie the generous, and she was beloved.

“Mace told me that you were invited to King’s landing by the High Septon for Baelor’s Festives and turned the invitation down because you are unwell,” Alerie’s voice holds none of the earlier tenseness anymore, but she seems wary still.

“Of course I am unwell. Age is an illness and I am an old woman. Any travel might be one I will not return from and I do not plan to give you that pleasure yet,” Lady Olena speaks, sounding almost amused though.

“But you always spoke favourably of the Great Sept of Baelor. Would you not wish to see it again? I am sure Garlan would gladly travel by your side,” Alerie persists, seemingly ignoring the barbs in Olenna’s words.

As if on cue, Garlan moves one of his figures, but dutifully nods. “Of course.”

“Hush, boy. The sept may be pretty, but beauty should never sway any woman’s opinion who is worth her salt,” with this, she turns slightly, softly patting Margery’s cheek. And then she smiles at Garlan. “From men, of course, we cannot expect such good thinking. So there was no point explaining this to Mace.”

“What reason do you then have to decline the invitation of the Faith?”

Olenna’s golden eyes are lit by an internal fire now. “What reason do I have to do their biding? Am I a dog to come to their heels at their whimsy invitation? As I said. I am old. Though I suspect I shall never recover from that, it is my prerogative to try. I hear that the air near the Sunset Sea should do wonders for it. Maybe I shall travel there, if I am to go anywhere. Go and assure your husband of his mother’s fraility so that he may rejoice,” and with her gaunt fingers she makes shooing motions at her daughter in law.

For a brief moment it seems as if Alerie would resist, as if there was something else she wanted to say. But then she turns on her heels, and does indeed leave. Lady Olenna watches as the other woman goes, then her gaze shifts from Mother to Daughter. “Remember this, my little rose. The Red Keep throws a long shadow over King’s Landing. And a flower needs strong roots to survive in that.”

“Grandmother,” Garlan finally speaks up. His deep voice is like a bears, matching his broad built and dark brown hair and beard, but not his fine features and pretty eyes.  “Do you mean it? Do you wish to travel to the Sunset Sea?”

Amusement displays on the old face. “And what if I do? Will you come along, my gallant Grandson? To keep your old Grandmother from being pawed at by the Lions?”

Garlan pauses. “You know the tale of the Lion and the thorn that stung him, Grandmother. My protection would not be solely for your sake.”

“Do you hear that, my little rose? Your brother had a smart thought,” Lady Olenna laughs, a croaking sound, dry in her old throat. Margery dutifully smiles, shooting her brother an apologetic look. “What do you say? Do you, too, want to help me?”

The golden eyes wander between Margery and Joanna, as  they exchange a glance. As it always is between them, the decision is Margery’s. And the mirth in those hazel eyes leaves no doubt what Margery wants. “Of course, Grandmother. May I bring Joanna along, though?”

Lady Olenna claps her hands, once, with a deeply satisfied expression. “Naturally you may bring your Gifted, little rose. I am not such a monster as to separate you. And who knows, your little cat may yet learn sharpness and become a cat with claws on our little adventure.” Again, she claps, unusually delighted. “Very well. So it shall be then.” Her gaze lingers on Joanna as she says this. “Very well.”


End file.
